This pains me to read.


1. Simple Child

 You’re scared.

You’re scared, chaotic and so so painfully lonely it hurts to breathe.

You want to be different.


Pretentious and hardly caring, listening to ostentatious bands, writing nonsensical poetry.  You want people to recognize you. You want people to admire you, to talk about you behind your back (toyourface) about how mysteriously fascinating you are.

You want to be the rebel, the uncontrollable anarchist. You want to be ohsohardcore.
Drugs and alcohol and sexsexsexsex. You want to be dangerously- luxuriously- unruly.


You’re scared.

You’re lonely.

You sit in your isolated nest, reorganizing the jumbled spewed thoughts pouring out of your inky finger as the hopeless scribbles in illegible scrawl leak from the pen and blot onto the page. You rearrange word after sprawling word and it never fits quite right. Nothing flows.

You rearrange the words, letter after painfully significant letter, vowel after vowel, consonant after useless consonant and it never makes sense.  You become angry because there are never enough letters but always far too many. Far too many things to say with 26 letters- but too many letters to be simple. For that is what you are, really- simple.

Simple child, sit quietly and brood.

Words burn into your soul like molten love but you cannot seem to quite grasp it. Words you do not understand but continue to use anyway- or words that slump from your mouth like continual vomit. Disgusting word vomit that you simply cannot stem.

The clock on the wall moves far too fast but seconds pass like hours.  These hours stretch for days and before you know it, you’re a year older but none the wiser. Tender youth/Undeniable age. You’re older and you detest it, but feel so young you could weep. So you do.

You have memories stored in plastic boxes in your corrosive brain- but you’re so toxicviciouslethal. The memories fuse into one long cathartic scum on the sea of your inability to feel anything at all.

You make yourself busy with tidying, constant rearranging of materialistic shit that clutters your brainhouse. You tidy, and tidy and tidy until there is nothing left to be tidied away but yourself. You wish you could- tidy away yourself. Remove the memory, and the thought and the malevolent feeling but it is too much effort so you give up. You sit on the floor and you stare at the perfect nothing covering your cluttered wall.

Poster after poster after printed photograph of someone you don’t know but wish you did. You ignore the you you are, and focus on the you you wish you could be- but never will be- and it hurts. It hurts so much you shut everything but the hammering of your beastly heart on the softening cage of your ribs out of your brain (outofyourlife). You’re a beast- a monster- and yet you care not.

Silence is golden.  Feeling is for the weak and frail- that’s not you. Your walls are as cluttered as can be- and yet your mind is a cavernous hole. Blank as the purist white (toofuckingwhite) but look properly, in the right light, and you’ll see the scratches on your brain. Scratched record making the needle stick- and you’re out.

(dryyoureyes) You don’t cry. You haven’t cried since you were twelve and yet your eyes wont stop leaking.  You’re a grade A fuck up with marks to match- failing school like you’re failing life and its sad, really. The girl with so much potential, they said. You’ll go far, kid, they said but you’re laughing because they’re so wrong. You promise them you’re doing fine- you’ll try harder, honest- you’ll get the grades and o to university and make something of yourself, girl but you know you’ll end up selling your soul to the devil and you’re okay with that. It makes you sick. You have no ambition and ‘lo- you care not.

You tell them you don’t want to see them- you’re busy or have essays to write. You tell them I’m not feeling too good, go without me but your craving human contact so much you physically ache with yearning. You just leak more and more, deflating like an ignored balloon left behind at the carnival of fucked up stereotypes. Freak- weirdo- whatthefuckevenAREyou. Who the fuck even are you, anyway. You just cry and cry and leave yourself to drift between a state of hating everyone and all they stand for- and being irrevocably in love with the whole of the human race.

You remember the lines to songs you don’t like- quotes to films you’ve never seen- but you cannot remember a time you felt content. You cut your skin, just to feel something close to contentment but the blood boils out of your skin like fluid disgust. You cover your scars but hope someone will see- notice- that you’re unhappy, that somethings wrong but they never do so you pushpushpush it further and further until they do notice your mutilated body but by then it’s too late, anyway because you’re dead. You’re dead to the world. (deafblindmute)

You’re addicted to the buzz- the caffeinated high- and the feeling of pure fucking –weightlessness- that follows. You laugh with your friends, you smile and grin and bray like a donkey but your skin is crawling with thousands of tinytiny (ohsofuckingtiny) bugs that you can see but no one else can. They hurt your paper skin but you’d feel lost without them.

She’s anorexic (So am I?), He cut himself (Liar), they’re parents died yesterday (I didn’t like them, anyway). You do not care about anything but the thoughts in your brain and the numbers on the food. (lovemelovemeloveme). 

Liquid love and material wealth is all you need, right? You tell yourself that night after night with your silver hipflask and garment of superficial cloth after ugly piece of fabric and you’re fine. You’re stuck in this pit, but its okay because you have your vodkagintequilaSOMETHING. You have your liquid lover.

You want to be the one with the problems, the fragile daisy, girl Lolita but they pounced too fast and now you’re drowning. You’re drowning in the fantastic (fabricated) existence you’ve created for yourself and growing to hate what you crafted to meticulously just so you could have something to love. (What is love, anyway?)

You’re hated by all and loved by none- not even yourself- and that saddens you because you wish they did but they never can. They can never love the fucked up fairy tale because you don’t believe it yourself. You don’t believe in life anymore.

You’re a walking stereotype for all that you promised yourself you’d never become but became anyway because there is no escape. This false bravado isn’t you- except for how it really is.

Gulp it in, child.

This is your life.

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